The -gate suffix is journalism’s laziest habit — and its most effective.
It started with Watergate in 1972, the break-in at the Democratic National Committee headquarters that brought down Richard Nixon. The name came from the Watergate Hotel in Washington, D.C. It was a proper noun, not a suffix. Then journalists realized they could staple “-gate” onto any scandal and instantly signal seriousness.
Since then, we have had Deflategate, Gamergate, Pizzagate, Bridgegate, Nipplegate, and hundreds more. Some were real scandals. Others were conspiracy theories. The suffix treated them all the same.
Critics call it lazy — a way to manufacture gravity without explaining context. Supporters say it works because audiences understand the reference immediately. Both are right. The problem is overuse: when everything is a “-gate,” nothing is. The suffix has become a cliché, a punchline, and occasionally a dangerous amplifier for baseless claims.
Yet it persists. Because in a world of infinite information, a familiar label is a life raft. Watergate was a crime, a cover-up, and a constitutional crisis. Nipplegate was a wardrobe malfunction at the Super Bowl. The suffix does not distinguish. It just sticks.